Bad Wife Read online

  I take my plate and cutlery and head upstairs to hide out in the attic. It doesn’t taste as good as it should, but I still want to eat it… like I still want to love her.

  It’s the dead of night and I’m trying to sleep in the spare room when the door creaks open and I hear footsteps creeping across the exposed floorboards.

  It’s a double bed but I still don’t want her in here. She hurt me and I feel bruised.

  But when she slides into bed naked and spoons up behind me, wraps her arms around me and whispers, “I love you,” I can’t help but respond, especially when she puts her hand in my shorts and rubs her fingers over my cock and balls.

  I roll over to face her and she looks so beautiful. With no make-up and her waist-length hair down and free, she’s the perfect woman for me. My slender, dainty wife who fits in between my arms perfectly.

  She’s crying and I kiss her cheeks, her mouth, holding her close. She shimmies my boxers down and I cup her beautiful, neat breast in my hand, leaning in to suckle her tight nipple, laving until the puckered flesh softens and becomes puffy under my touch.

  She rubs my cock until I’m fully hard and straining not to come. She takes my hand and places it between her legs, flinging her arms above her head while I touch her in all the ways I know she enjoys.

  She comes around my fingers, her small, tight pussy grasping against me as she floods with juice. Susie has the most beautiful pussy, but she’s so tight, we have to work around that sometimes and I always need to make sure she’s dripping wet.

  She pulls me on top of her and wraps her legs around my back, urging me to push inside her. I link my fingers through hers and push her hands above her head, allowing my cock to slide into her body without forcing anything, our movements gradually bringing us slowly and deliciously together.

  “Oh, baby,” I groan, gripped so tight between her walls.

  “I need you,” she whispers, “I love you.”

  I circle my hips and ease the rest of my cock into her, loving every groan that leaves her mouth. I kiss her lips and smother her mouth with kisses, my wife responding with submission and gratitude only – our lovemaking the only time she ever lets me have the reins.

  I aim my cock at her g-spot and start rubbing her clit with my finger, her plump mouth puffy and agape as I bring her to the edge. I squeeze her hand and murmur, “I love you,” and she comes around my cock, shaking me to my core so I can’t help but ejaculate into her, shoving all my cum deep into her womb.

  I hold myself inside her and keep my weight partially trapping her, kissing her mouth afterwards, her breasts and her throat, too. She’s so beautiful, like a precious doll, sometimes I’m afraid I might hurt her but she’s much stronger than she looks.

  Fatigue starts to take me and we cuddle up, me spooning her, my arms wrapped right round her, trapping her own arms against her chest as though to stop her thrashing in sleep.

  When it’s like this, it’s perfect. She’s pliant and peaceful. I have her in my arms and these are the moments when I truly believe I have her heart.

  “Susie?” I ask, calling her by the name I only ever use in private.

  “Yes, bubbakins,” she says, calling me by my own, secret pet name.

  “You like it when I’m in charge?”

  “Yes,” she whispers shyly. “I got a little wet earlier when you got mad.”

  “Why didn’t you come and bring your body to me sooner?”

  “Because I’m proud and want everything my own way.”

  I hug her harder and kiss her throat. “You’re forgiven, my love. Always forgiven.”

  “It’s not right when we don’t share the same bed.”

  “I agree.”

  “I don’t want to fight anymore, Adam.”

  “Okay.”

  And with that, I fall instantly to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  She’s making me breakfast as she always does, usually eggs of some sort. Today it’s poached eggs on top of mashed avocado, no doubt with protein-rich toast beneath. She always gets that darker bread for breakfast and I like the taste more than anything it might do for my health.

  I think she’s trying to fatten me up like her father, hone me into the same shape as him or something. She feeds me almost four square meals a day and I’m still pretty much straight up and down, aside from the slightly soft middle – purely because I’m not the kind of guy to ever bother working out. I occasionally enjoy a jog in the morning and still play five-a-side once or twice a week, but I’m really not bothered about bulking up. And besides, I once spent three months doing everything possible to put weight on, but I gained around half a stone at most and the minute I stopped with the shakes and the weights, I went right back to normal. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am this shape and size naturally – but I’m not going to turn down my wife’s delicious cooking, no way, especially when I have a naturally high metabolism and can get away with all this.

  She’s fully made up before eight a.m. whereas I’m still in my pyjamas, eating at the kitchen island on a stool, my glasses on. I wear contacts when I’m meeting up with people because I’m still coming to terms with my fading eyesight, but she likes me in my glasses and she likes me like this… barely dressed and eating her freshly prepared food like a barbarian.

  Susan will have already eaten her granola and skyr yoghurt earlier, after a six a.m. yoga session in the front room and a power shower after that.

  Dressed in a skirt suit and with her beautiful hair fastened up and pinned back, she looks astonishingly beautiful and ready to conquer the world.

  “I have a busy day so don’t be surprised if I’m a little tiny bit late home.”

  It looks like she’s in a better mood today, but I don’t know if that’s because she has plans to take out her tension on her workforce later on.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, “I’ve got plenty to do myself. If you’re not home before seven, I’ll take one of the microwave meals out of the freezer.”

  “I will try to be home before then, though,” she pouts, and comes to my side, kisses my cheek and smooths her lipstick away from my skin. “I’d love a repeat of last night when I get in.”

  “So would I.”

  She looks out of the windows to make sure none of our neighbours are out in their gardens and teases me with the edge of her bra, pulling her blouse open just a little. “I’ll still be wearing it tonight. And I’ve got matching panties and the suspender belt you love.”

  She’s grinning as she leaves the room and I can only drool after her, watching her immaculate pins in those sexy-as-fuck stockings leave the house. God, her legs are so fucking perfect.

  Everything about her body drives me wild.

  I get finished with my breakfast quickly and carry my coffee with me back upstairs to the office room in the attic. As my computer’s loading up, I sneak a hand inside my boxers and start rubbing the erection inside.

  Just as I’m getting really hard, my phone pings with a text from my wife.

  Baby, save your juice for me… I’ll know…

  I bite my lip and send her a text back: But the sight of your legs… left me so hard.

  Yes, and all the men in the office will be hard all day, too. Doesn’t mean to say they will be sitting there with their hands down their pants, though.

  I would normally reply with some retort at this point, something along the lines of blokes will be blokes and will get their kicks somehow, but because we’ve been going through a tough time lately, I dial it down and tell her: I’ll save it for you, then.

  Good boy. You’d better.

  As soon as my computer is loaded up, I visit Pornhub and find a video of some obvious thirty-year-old dressed as a schoolgirl, getting fucked by her driver in the back of a limousine, his cock massive and her tits prosthetically enhanced.

  I’ve coated the inside of my boxers before I know it.

  Shit, damn.

  Susan will know.

  I’ll have to i
ncinerate these boxers, hide them or even worse, wash them. The last time I tried to wash anything, the load ended up shrunk and a darker shade than what it went in as. I thought I saw steam coming out of her ears when she found out that I’d put on a load even though we have a couple of maids that come in. Susan calls them that, not me. She calls them maids. One cleans, the other does the shopping, the laundry and the general maintenance around here. Susan pays for all that out of her wages, along with her monumental wardrobe, penchant for sexy lingerie and regular trips to spas, wellness centres and retreats.

  My salary pays for the essentials, but saying that, the essentials don’t amount to much. We have a tiny mortgage on this house owing to Boris having helped us out. The bills aren’t huge because it’s mostly just me at home and I’m low maintenance. I have a car loan I’m paying off but Susan’s car was a gift from her dad – an Alfa Romeo, no less. She will have texted me between traffic jams but now she will be showing everyone on the roads who’s boss as she speeds into Leeds this Monday morning, her job as a media manager keeping her always busy.

  I check a few emails, make sure nobody has any fires to put out, then slope off to the shower and clean up. By the time I’m back at my desk, it’s nine on the dot and I’ve hidden the soiled boxer shorts at the bottom of the laundry bag.

  Laundry day isn’t until tomorrow but I will just have to hope Susan doesn’t go rummaging and find out I came without her permission, emptying my few remaining sperm into my boxers when I could have saved it for tonight.

  I have a list of projects I’m working on and before I do anything, I prioritise which tasks need my attention first. Working from home as a copywriter is pretty good, actually. I get more money as a freelance and more freedom. The only downside is that I don’t have other human beings in the house with me to socialise with. That’s the only thing I miss.

  Susan suggested I work from home in preparation for parenthood. When we were first married, we had a grand plan, which included me being a stay-at-home dad once she had the baby. I was more than happy about that idea at first. Susan is the breadwinner and probably always will be, but also, my father was never around when I was growing up so I wanted to do things differently with my kids. My father was a football coach (retired now) and he was always away. He loved what he did and I loved that he was a coach, but now I look back, I realise why my mother was unhappy a lot of the time and why she was quick to snap when he’d been gone a while.

  That thing about Susan’s age is niggling me. She lied. If she lied about that… what else has she lied about? I don’t know. I’m starting to wonder if she didn’t want us working together anymore…

  Anyway, time to get on with the day. These things won’t write themselves.

  At 5.30, I shut down my computer and head downstairs for a glass of water. I worked right through lunch for the extra £50, which I might not tell Susan about and keep to myself or maybe, I’ll give myself the afternoon off on Friday as a reward.

  I put one of the microwave meals in and eat it at the island, staring out at the garden even as the sun goes down, the end of summer fast approaching now. I should be looking forward to the cosier winter nights, cuddled up with my wife and perhaps a growing bump. All I feel right now is that I have this cloud looming over my head and I don’t know what to do about it. I feel the same old me. I’m as randy as a motherfucker all of the time. It’s hard to believe my fertility isn’t good. I’ve never been ill in my whole life. It’s a strange new thing for me… admitting I have any kind of deficiency.

  I finish the meal and throw the plastic carton in the recycling bin, stuff my fork in the dishwasher and go back upstairs. Even if she does get home soon and decides to cook, I’ll eat that as well.

  While I have some time, I decide to go for a rummage. If she isn’t home soon, it’s more than likely she won’t be home for a while.

  I pull out some of her shoeboxes full of papers and work my way through them. There are a lot of cards and letters she’s kept from friends and family. I never thought she was a monster but I was beginning to feel like she was cold, so to see these little mementoes so carefully kept reassures me. But most of these boxes are just that – no official papers or anything.

  If there’s anywhere I’ll find the evidence, it’ll probably be in our memory box from the wedding. She’s kept everything from the RSVP cards to scrapbooks of ideas to draft invitations to little squares of material and pressed flowers.

  I dig deep and discover a cardboard tube. I remember she said it was in here, though I’ve not seen it since the wedding. I didn’t even get a good look at it back then. I obviously didn’t take the time to register her age. I signed my life away willy-nilly without a second thought, purely because I was so in love, I was blind.

  I pop out the paper inside the tube and discover our wedding certificate. Sure enough, there’s her date of birth. It’s the same date we’ve always celebrated her birthday on, it’s just that she is actually thirty. I have an older bride and I never knew. Well, now I do – and I really don’t know how I feel about that.

  Should I feel grateful that she did actually tell me her age eventually? Or should I be worried she tried to hide it all?

  Even worse, should I worry that she only divulged her age when she thought doing so might be to her advantage with this whole baby thing?

  I take a deep breath and put everything away, leaving it as carefully stacked and neat as I found it so she doesn’t suspect anything.

  I go next to her dressing table and search through her drawers. There’s bound to be something in here she doesn’t want me to find.

  One of the drawers will only be opened with a key but after rummaging through her musical jewellery box, I find the item I need.

  Opening the secret drawer, my heart is pounding. She could be home any minute now. I would know if she were because this is an old house and always shakes whenever the front door is opened and closed… but still, I can’t allay my beating heart.

  I get in the drawer and there are things she definitely wouldn’t want me to find in here. There’s a little pocket vibrator she would never admit to owning… some bleach for facial hair… and something that bothers me more than anything else.

  There’s a letter from the fertility clinic with an appointment that’s coming up very soon – and she’s kept it from me on purpose, it seems.

  I don’t know if she cancelled this since the letter was sent over a month ago now, but it feels like she made this appointment and always intended to keep it – her husband be damned.

  I punch the number of the fertility clinic into my phone and tidy everything away, tucking the key of her secret drawer back where I found it. And she always told me sex toys were so repulsive…

  I escape to my office upstairs and call the fertility clinic, just in case they’re still open.

  Thankfully, someone answers, “Hello, Harvest Fertility Centre. How can I help you?”

  “Hello there,” I stammer, trying out my best posh voice, “I’m calling to check the time and date of an appointment my wife and I have with you.”

  “Okay. What’s the name?”

  “Mr and Mrs Adam Hartley.”

  “Let me check our system. One moment, please.”

  She puts me on hold and it’s weird, because, why put someone on hold when all they’re calling about is an appointment?

  “Hello? Mr Hartley?”

  “Yes, still here.”

  “There’s a note on your file. I’m just putting you through to Doctor Gillan. She’s about to leave for the day but you just caught her.”

  I’m wondering what the fuck is going on when she puts me on hold again, this time with that dreadful music playing in the background. After a minute or so, Doctor Gillan appears on the line in her soft Edinburgh twang. All I remember of her is the way she took my little cup of sperm with a sad smile in her eyes, then proceeded to tell us we’d have the results within a few days.

  “Mr Hartley, it’s Pam Gillan
. How are you?”

  “I’m okay, how are you?”

  “I’m… okay. Listen… I asked your wife to let you know I wanted to speak with you, but never heard anything back. Her upcoming appointment is still in place, but I wanted to speak with you personally, Mr Hartley.”

  “Erm. No. No. She never said anything.”

  “Mr Hartley, did you know your wife, Susanna had IVF before?”

  I’m floored. Absolutely. Truly and completely.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Four years ago. At another clinic. She has advanced endometriosis, did she not tell you?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. She came to see me for the results a few weeks ago and I thought it was strange she was on her own. When I told her the results in detail, she looked disappointed but not surprised. I think she was hoping for a second opinion to tell her something different, but unfortunately, I couldn’t. I mentioned that I wanted to talk it over with both of you in attendance but she rejected that idea. It’s a very difficult thing for her to deal with.”

  “Wait—wait—what?”

  “She has a very slim chance of conceiving. I had to call the previous clinic she was treated at, with her ex-fiancé. That round of treatment didn’t produce any results and as I understand it, resulted in the end of that relationship—”

  “I hate to butt in, doctor, but she told me I was the one with the thing. She told me my sperm count is low.”

  The doctor is silent for a long time. I start to wonder if she’s passed out.

  “With regards to you, Mr Hartley, I’m happy to say everything is normal. I can only apologise profusely that you’ve been led to believe otherwise. This is why I wanted to deliver the news in person… with you both in attendance… because she needs someone she trusts to help her see that IVF isn’t a magic cure. She’s still booked in for two weeks’ time for further assessment, but I very much believe that Susan will have been planning to attend this appointment alone and disregard any opinion you may have, Mr Hartley. I know how much of a determined young woman she is, you see. I’ve gleaned quite a bit from the clinic she used before. That was a private clinic, too.”